


Skilled hands

by Mysteriouscheekbones1



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Implied Murder, Implied Violence, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4882207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysteriouscheekbones1/pseuds/Mysteriouscheekbones1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Literally Hannibal fingering these three lovely ladies in different situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abigail Hobbs

**Author's Note:**

> I had such fun writing this, and I write for myself and for my own amusement etc, but if you enjoy it then I am also very happy about that, thanks for taking the time to read!

I am gentle, despite how I wish to see what would happen if I ruin that porcelain skin, tenderise it with my hands and peel it from the bone, craft a work of art from what's inside, but possessions have to be kept safe and nurtured, polished and cleaned, besides, I can work from within.

I curl my fingers up into her core, slow strokes that require a surgeon's precision, forearm sinewy with muscle. She watches my wrist curling, tendons tightening, doe eyes wide, chocolate hair falling over cheeks and into her mouth. She splays herself on my chair and I kneel between her legs, cobalt blue shirt rolled up to the elbow, my eyes curious and observant to the twitches in her legs and her open mouth.

She curls herself inwards, like a flower shying from winter, petals curling; she blazes with embarrassment and the wine I told her she could drink, it flushes into her cheeks under her skin like electricity- no one has seen her here before, like this, legs hooked over the armrests, whimpering like a wounded creature. I press into her pubis With a palm, thumb circling her clitoris with apt pressure, pushing slowly, pushing, pushing.

Abigail twitches, squirms, as if her skin were crawling with hot fire, the warmth softly pooling in her tummy. She tells me it is too much, breast swelling with the needs for oxygen, chemicals liquidising the resolve of her conscious into a hot mess between her ears- I will set her in flight.

"Hannibal." She whines, gripping her belly, hips rising, legs shaking as I connect the wires to spark the current in her nerves.

She burns in the electrocution.

I hold her in her afterglow, cradling her on my lap.


	2. Bedilia Du Maurier

Bedilia is a controlled woman, fair hair rolling in gentle waves to shoulder blades, not a strand out of place. Her tailored dresses in deep crimsons, blacks and blues plain and calm like her exterior. But, inside, I see the desperate, clinging, dissatisfied woman that is Bedilia Du Maurier. I want to spoil this mess of a disguise, peel the tape from the broken seams and spill her brains into the earth so that she can truly know herself and her capabilities, capabilities she fears.

I don't need to tell her to spread herself on her kitchen counter. She grabs at her dress, hitches it up to her hips, tugging her knickers down and over her freshly waxed mons, thighs wide, cunt hot with molten need, the product of a dissatisfying, unfulfilling life of a woman who craves to be in the depths of the woods. I am willing enough to lead her into the dark, rotting foliage.

Bedilia licks keenly at my fingers, like a dog she pants and I press them past her makeup covered lips, smudging it for her, pushing away the mask she applies every day to cover her reality, and she actually lets me, because she can't do it herself, like a weak, hungry child- foolish woman.

I push my wet fingers into her, roughly starting a vigorous rhythm, just the way she wants it-to _feel_ it- bracing her to the granite counter with my forearm. I feel her ribs part and form again under my own weight.

Bedilia makes no sound as I bring her to her edge, mouth wide and the whites of her eyes stark against black lashes, sounds of air trying to pass through a closed throat, the occasional plea for God. God is not in this house, in this kitchen, Bedilia.

"God- Hannibal- Hannibal-" she groans one last time, muscles tightening like a vice around her bones, and falls silent as her disintegration crashes into her. She gushes past my fingers.

Bedilia is undone at my hands.


End file.
